A Series of Responses
by Anaticula4
Summary: A compilation of kinkmeme requests, and those little stories that end up stuck in my brain. Mostly rated M, and mostly HxW.
1. Overload

Rating: PG-13

Warning: Slash, HxW

Synopsis: Written in response to a kinkmeme prompt, which requested sensory overload Holmes while making out in the rain with Watson.

Words: 321

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Sherlock Holmes can feel the individual ridges of each brick as they dig into his back. He can hear the droplets of rain falling into the puddle at their feet, and he hazards a guess that the water is a chilly 40˚F. He can smell the stench of the London alleyway, even through the cleansing scent of rain. He senses all of this in the half second before John Watson crashes their lips together.

And then all he can focus on is the mouth that tastes of tea, tobacco, and something so inherently masculine that it makes him gasp. And the probing mouth of his partner swallows that gasp.

He can feel the dance of mustache hairs across his mouth as Watson slightly nibbles his lower lip. He can feel the chip in Watson's tooth as he bites down slightly, and the whole world falls in a blur. Holmes can feel slightly calloused fingers wind their way through his hair and pull him forward. He can feel hard arousal pressed to his thigh through layers of tweed.

He can smell the doctor's sweat, no doubt a consequence of chasing after him when he had tried to slip through the door in Watson's waistcoat. He can hear the quickened breath, and he's sure that if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear a pulse.

His hands encounter wet hair, and for the first time since they've kissed, Holmes realizes that they're standing in the rain. But his attentions are re-focused when Watson slips a tongue through his lips, and strokes the roof of his mouth. His knees buckle, and his hips move of their own accord.

He can feel himself shivering and cold, but burning for touch. He can feel his mind fall by the wayside at the sensation of being wanted. And most of all, he can feel the world descend into oblivion when John Watson kisses him.


	2. Slumber

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Slash and a pretty explicit description of a blowjob.

Synopsis: Written for a "Watson waking Holmes in an unusual way" prompt over at the kinkmeme.

Words: 501

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John Watson had finally figured out why Sherlock Holmes seemed to require so little sleep, and the answer was that the detective slept like the dead. Watson had never seen another man who slept so heavily or peacefully. Holmes did not snore, talk, or walk in his sleep, he simply slept. All mental acuity that presented itself during his waking moments was lost when Holmes hit the pillow.

Watson couldn't help a smile as he looked over at the detective's sleeping form. He had often wondered when Holmes' acute senses would kick in and wake the man up. Thus, Watson decided to partake in an experiment of his own devising, one that had to do with the obscene tent in the sheets caused by none other then Sherlock Holmes.

He moved slowly towards his sleeping friend, careful not to shake the bed. Watson's hand ghosted across the lean muscles pulled taut under the paper-thin skin of Holmes. He slowly followed the line of hair that led to Holmes' erection, pulling back the sheets to allow him to fully facilitate his "experiment".

Watson's fingers slowly traced the veins on Holmes' shaft, lightly stroking the soft skin. He blew upon Holmes' member, and placed a small kiss upon the crown, which caused the detective to shift slightly, but nothing more. Watson placed his tongue at the base of Holmes and slowly licked up and then down again, thoroughly determined to bathe Holmes' cock in an effort to receive the results he desired. Sherlock moaned breathily and his hips twitched towards Watson's mouth.

Watson smiled and wrapped his lips around the top of Holmes' manhood, slowly inching his way down. When he reached the base, he slowly slid his way back up setting a leisurely pace that a conscious Holmes would protest. Sure enough, Holmes' hands tightened around the sheets and his hips pushed forwards. Watson began to speed up his movements, adding a hand to help him wake one stubborn detective.

Soon those hands were grasping the sheets tightly, and Watson sensed Holmes was close to releasing and waking up. He sped up his mouth, filling the room with the wet sound of mouth on cock, and bringing a hand down to cup the detective's balls. With that, Holmes' eyes burst open and he swiftly sat straight up forcing his cock further down the throat of the good doctor. The feel of Watson's throat was too much and Holmes found himself spilling down the throat of Watson, as sparks burst beneath his eyelids.

When Holmes reopened his eyes he was greeted with a laughing partner.

"My theory has been proven. I've finally found a way to wake you from one of your sleeping spells," Watson chuckled while Holmes recovered from the shock of waking up to an orgasm. Watson pulled himself up to Holmes' lips and kissed him slowly and sloppily.

"Allow me to test a theory of my own," Holmes replied sliding down the length of his friend's body.


	3. Tweed

Rating: PG

Summary: Witten in response to a picture of RDj cuddling a tweed coat

Word Count: 295

********

He gets up, careful not to shake the bed Watson sleeping on. He can't help but look down upon his partner's sleeping form, and smirk at how thoroughly debauched the good doctor looks. This night he has won over Mary, but Watson will wake and return home to her once again.

Holmes digs his nails into the palm of skin, thankful for the moment of clarity in his post-coital bliss. He moves silently through the halls of 221B. He's naked and cold, but his heart is set on something.

He makes his way down the stairs, careful to avoid the creak on the seventh step. His feet pitter-patter upon the floor of the foyer, and he grabs hold of his prize.

The detective brings his spoil to his room and tucks it into his desk drawer, careful not to wake the good doctor. He will crawl back into bed and trace the hairs of Watson's mustache until the sun rises, and the day must begin.

Holmes will stand as Watson searches for his waistcoat during the hazy fog of the morning. He will offer nonsensical suggestions about the nature of waistcoats and their penchant for disappearing. Watson will huff and bristle, but he will not leave without once more pressing his lips to the lips of a smirking detective.

And sometime throughout the day, Holmes will receive the bill for a new waistcoat, always the same make of tweed. He will grumble, even though he has more than enough money to spare.

And on days when there is rain, and he is alone, Holmes will uncover that tweed jacket and bury his nose in it for a whiff of the man who smells so achingly like home, that even a detective's cold heart must melt.


	4. Defeat

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Holmes allows himself to get beaten in the boxing ring because he's a masochist. I kind of took it in another direction….

Words: 585

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He can see the right hook coming, and his mind quickly assesses the situation, determining the correct path of defense. But he allows the fist to collide with his jaw, and he can see stars beneath his closed eyelids. He allows himself to be beaten and bested within the muddy circle of the ring, just for the moment of complete and total silence.

He can feel the dirt upon his back, but he is so hopelessly lost that he cannot determine the place of origin or geological make. He would never admit it, but he craves this clarity more then anything (except, of course, the touch of the good doctor).

He feigns outrage, and climbs to his feet, stumbling slightly. The audience roars, and he can tell he has played his part well. He has become so adapt at this dance of defeat that even the most seasoned actor would envy his whole-hearted dedication to the piece.

He throws faulty punch after faulty punch, each calculated to miss its mark. He feels the blow to his ribs, and he takes the pain happily. For when there is pain, there is clarity. His marvelous mind is pushed aside by primal instincts, and he can allow thoughts of the doctor to slip away. He can allow himself to revert back to his original state, that of savage.

He collects the punches happily; awash in a sea of pain so thick it must be pleasure. He is knocked over by the brute once more, and he finds his thoughts so clear that he knows exactly what he must do, and these small revelations are worth the beatings he takes for them.

He lies prostrate upon the ground and is declared the defeated. He can hear the sighs of those who bet on him, and he thinks what a mistake to bet upon a mad detective. He is hauled out of the ring, and to his left he can hear the musky voice of his doctor.

"You fooled everyone else," the voice says, completely and totally self-assured. "Do not delude yourself into believing you are a exceptional actor, they are just an inattentive audience."

He is being cleaned, and then his arm is heaved over the shoulder of the good doctor so that they might home. He stumbles through the crowd and into the murky night air. He scrambles for purchase in the doctor's tweed and maneuvers them into a dank alley.

He fists his hands in the man's hair and crashes their lips into a beautiful cacophony. He breathes heavily and rubs against the doctor like cat in heat. He can smell his sweat intermingling with the reassuring smell of pomade and Earl Grey, the smell of _home_. The result is simultaneously so primal and so complex that he can't help but thrust against his friend.

There is no mind for bruises that will burn in the morning. This is too urgent, too spontaneous, and too real. Each scrape and bump allows for clarity to be born anew, and he ruts against the doctor while the night air sets his lungs on fire.

They unravel together, clinging and clawing their way to completion. He rests his sweat-slick hair against his partner's shoulder and pants into the tweed. They continue home, and he is sewn up in front of the fire. As he drifts into the first restful sleep he's had for weeks, he can't help but wonder what is more dangerous: the boxing ring, or the good doctor.


	5. Heat

Rating: NC-17

Summary: The prompt was something along the lines of it's a hot day, and Mary and Irene strip down because of the heat.

Word Count: 1,396

This is my first time writing femmeslash, so it may not be up to par with my other stories, but enjoy!

********

**Heat**

Irene Adler was saying something that Mary assumed was as interesting and intriguing as everything else she said. However, Mrs. John Watson could not focus on a single word, as she was too busy following the drop of sweat languidly running down the neck in front of her.

"Mary, dear?" The voice was cloying with its saccharine sweetness.

"Yes?" She replied, slowly slipping her eyes up to focus on the berry-pink lips that demanded her attention.

"More sugar please." It was not a question, but a singular order that Mary had grown increasingly used to.

After giving Irene two more teaspoons of sugar, Mary found herself meditating on the overwhelming heat of her house. Everything seemed slower and sluggish, even Miss Adler.

"The boys are running around solving yet another case, and I'm sure neither one of them will return for a few days. Why are they always leaving us like this? It's no fun." The woman across from her continues, and Mary knows the answer, they both do.

Irene continues talking about the detective and his partner, but Mary's thoughts are elsewhere. She watches a fine line of perspiration form across Irene's forehead, no doubt caused by the lovely, but also completely impractical, emerald green dress Miss Adler is wearing.

The woman in question fans herself with an oriental fan, barely creating any sort of breeze. "Tell me, do you always keep your house so warm?" There's an edge to the question that jolts Mary out of her reverie.

"It seems that our best efforts are not enough," she replies. "It is simply an exhaustingly hot day. There is nothing else to be done about it." There's an edge to her retort, just to remind Miss Adler whose house she is in.

Irene shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and Mary thinks what a monumental effort it must be to keep her composure.

"This is simply unbearable," Irene says as her fingers light upon the buttons along the front of her dress and she toes her shoes off. Mary can hear the brush of nails against the fabric of her dress, and her breath freezes in her throat.

"Irene, what in the world are you doing?" Her voice is throatier then she would care to admit.

"Mary, this is abominable, even you must admit that. No one else is here, and I will suffocate if I do not remove some of these layers." She continues plucking at the buttons before removing the top of her dress, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You are being overly dramatic. My house may be hot, but not hot enough to suffocate." Mary sniffs, although her eyes are drawn to the newly revealed skin.

Irene smiles and her chest moves against the thin fabric of her chemise, still restricted by her corset. "Why don't you do the same? It is awfully refreshing." With that she continues to sip her tea.

Time passes, and the heat continues to grow. Before long Mary can feel sweat running down her back, and soon she too is suffocating from the warmth.

Soon, Irene rises from her chair and begins tugging at the bottom of her dress determined to get the damned thing off of her.

"My goodness, it's only grown hotter," she says, wiping her forehead before continuing to tug on the brocade. "I know you don't approve, but please help."

Mary obliges her, and together the two of them strip Miss Adler from her ornate dress, like a caterpillar from a cocoon. Irene lays her dress across the back of the chair and stretches out upon the sofa.

Mary's hands go to the back of her dress and begin undoing the buttons, because she has to agree with Irene, this heat is stifling. Soon she is free from her garment, and the air upon her sweat-soaked skin is paradise.

The two of them lay and talk about the state of affairs in the current world, until once again the heat rises.

"It really is an Indian summer," Irene says while struggling to remove her petticoat. Mary can't help but laugh when she succeeds, because she no longer looks so regal, and Irene flashes one of the quick smiles that take her breath away.

Soon, she is following suit and disrobing down to her under petticoat, still not sufficiently cooled off. "This is ridiculous," Mary says. "Why must we wear so many clothes?"

"That's why I prefer men's clothing," Irene answers, stepping out of her last skirt. "There's so much less to wear."

Mary can't help but look at the sight presented in front of her. Irene's corset is beautifully decorated with embroidered daisies, and she can see the outline of her breasts beneath her chemise. Irene is no longer elegantly made up or effortlessly styled; instead she looks wanton with those full parted lips and light sheen of sweat. She is all slim curves and lace, and Mary knows she needs an excuse to leave the room before she acts on her desires.

"I think we have some wine in the kitchen," she says and disappears into the corridors of her house. She returns to the sitting room, and pours a generous glass for both of them.

Mary sits on the couch, and Irene leans against her legs, deeply drinking from the glass. Soon they have finished most of the bottle, and Irene is telling her a story about the madness of Mr. Holmes.

"He followed me into pub demanding that I finish what I started when the owner-," Irene stops, peering up at Mary. "What a pretty corset you have," she says as her hands skim the pale pink fabric.

Mary arches into her touch instinctually, and Irene rises to her knees to peer directly into those blue eyes. "It's so pretty," she says as her fingers stray to stroke the embroidery invoking a hiss from Mary.

Irene brings her lips centimeters from Mary's, and whispers "tell me what you want, Mary dearest."

Mary involuntarily shuts her eyes and struggles for the words to describe what she desires.

"I want to…be touched," she breathes. "I want you to touch me." And Irene obliges quite kindly. She winds her fingers through Mary's pinned up hair and tugs their faces together. Irene mashes their lips together, and gently nips her bottom lip. They kiss lazily and slowly, exploring and tasting at their leisure.

When they break apart both of them are panting, and Irene's fingers pull on the laces of Mary's corset. She breathes a sigh of relief when she's freed, and soon helps her friend do the same.

Mary can see the dusty pink of Irene's nipple through her chemise, and she can't help but give it a tweak. Irene throws her head back and moans, arching into Mary's fingers. She does it again just to achieve the same spectacular reaction, and she is not disappointed. Irene tugs at the bottom of her chemise and pulls it over her head much to the delight of Mary.

She runs her finger down the lean torso, following the smooth curve of her hip. Irene arches and climbs upon the couch to straddle Mary's lap, smiling devilishly before pushing Mary's head towards her breast. Mary licks and sucks greedily trying to coax more moans from the ravishing creature in front of her, until Irene gently rocks against her.

Irene tugs at Mary's chemise, until Mary is as bare as she is. Irene slips her hands between Mary's legs and resumes their kissing, albeit at a faster pace. Her fingers work magic as she rocks her hips against Mary's stocking-clad leg.

The two of them move in tandem, sweat wetting their hair and dripping down their backs. Irene slips her fingers into Mary, who moans into her mouth and arches beneath her so prettily.

Soon Mary is coming undone, and Irene slips her finger upwards to lightly rub Mary's pearl, causing her to unravel into pieces. She rests her head against Irene's shoulder, while the brunette rocks erratically against her leg, panting into her hair. Mary lazily brings Irene's nipple to her mouth once more, and she is rewarded with a loud moan and several more thrusts before Irene stills.

The two of them remain tangled together as they catch their breaths, before Irene smiles and says "I seem to have cooled down" before once more kissing Mary.


	6. Changes

**Changes**

When he had suggested they try something new, he hadn't meant this. He had intended for her to buy a new corset, or maybe introduce restraints. This was something entirely different.

Standing in front of him was his beloved doctor, or at least a quality imitation. Irene had certainly put effort into changing herself into Watson. They were definitely his clothes, Holmes could tell from an ink stain on the suit sleeve. He smelled Watson's pipe, along with the peculiar scented shaving soap his dear doctor favored.

While the clothes didn't fit the way that he was used to, the effect was all the same. The same make of tweed, the same cut of pants. He could even make out the outline of Watson's pocket watch in the vest pocket. Irene must have been planning this for weeks, and on second thought, Holmes remembered detecting a hint of her lavender perfume in the hallway some time ago.

"What do you think?" Spoke the remarkable imitation of his friend. The lilting tone was still present, but it was gruffer and ingrained with a British accent.

Her breasts had been bound, and Holmes suspected Irene had stuffed Watson's shoes with newspaper in order to make them fit. Her hat hung at a crooked angle, and the mustache that she had affixed to her face bristled.

Overall, the affect was comical, but also inexplicably arousing. Protests sprung to mind in order to make himself seem less the deviant then he was, but somehow none passed his lips.

"Ah, Irene," Holmes began, intent on stopping this before it went too far.

"Watson," she corrected him. "I am Watson." She said it with utter devotion sounding every bit like his friend.

"Irene," he began again. There was no way Holmes could go through with this. But before he could explain the various flaws in her plan, Irene hobbled over to him. Her imitation of Watson's limp broke his resolve. Holmes took comfort in Watson's gait, and somehow he fell headfirst into the fantasy.

Irene crushed her lips to his, standing on her tiptoes to mimic the doctor's height. She did not kiss like a woman; so much so that Holmes had to remind himself that she was indeed Irene.

Her lips were no longer smooth, but chapped like Watson's. She kissed him hungrily and demanding. He struggled for dominance against her, his hands gripping the familiar fabric of Watson's suit jacket. She growled against him, her hands twining in his hair.

All semblance of Holmes' self-restraint flew out the window when he felt the bristle of the mustache irritate his upper lip. She tasted like Watson's favorite brandy, and her hands were everywhere at once.

He was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of strength Irene used. She'd commandeered their kiss, and had somehow managed to rid him of his shirt. Her hands deftly undid the buttons of his pants as her lips made their way to his neck. She tweaked his nipple hard, earning a ragged gasp from him. He lost himself in the imagining that Watson was here doing this to him somehow.

Holmes couldn't help but inhale suddenly as she grasped his manhood and tugged. Jesus, her hands seemed rougher somehow. She stroked him slowly, but urgently as he dreamt Watson would. As he came close to nearing the edge, she stopped her movements. Holmes groaned in frustration, and he was seized with the urge to show Watson how he felt.

He grabbed her waist roughly and turned her around. Irene's hands went to the bed stand in front of her, and she gripped it roughly as Holmes' hands curved up her back. He nuzzled her neck while relieving her of her jacket and vest. He smelt Watson's scent, which only encouraged him to move faster.

Holmes removed her suspenders, and busied himself with the fly of her pants. He pulled her trousers down traced the curve of her backside. He could feel her arch beneath him and he pressed himself against Irene, desperate to maker her his Watson.

"I've prepared myself," she said, her voice ragged with desire. She had known that prolonged exposure would ruin the illusion, and she needed this.

Holmes slowly inserted himself into her, gasping at the sensation. He began to thrust tentatively at first, but encouraged by her groans. He sped up the pace fully aware that he would not last long, and that Watson wouldn't mind.

Irene keened against him, allowing Holmes to ravage her thoroughly. She allowed him to push and pull her to his heart's content, because she was enjoying this to. He thrust twice before draping himself over her as he burst into a million pieces. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, and she was surprised to find herself panting heavily. Irene licked her lip and tasted blood, no doubt a result of their savage kissing.

"Well, three guesses what hits the spot." Holmes could practically hear the smile in her voice.


End file.
